


One Minute To Midnight

by red_starshine



Series: Holidays With Chas & Constantine [9]
Category: Constantine (TV), Hellblazer & Related Fandoms
Genre: Champagne, Established Relationship, Family Issues, Fluff and Angst, M/M, New Year's Eve
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-31
Updated: 2015-12-31
Packaged: 2018-05-10 17:42:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5595118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/red_starshine/pseuds/red_starshine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Here's to the end of the old, and the beginning of the new."</p>
            </blockquote>





	One Minute To Midnight

**Author's Note:**

> This'll makes more sense if you've read the first story, [Past Three O'Clock.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2807015)

“Another year gone,” said John. “Doesn’t seem possible.”

Chas snorted, placing another log into the millhouse’s roaring fireplace. “How so?”

“I’m still alive, have all me bits ‘n bobs still attached. Our line of work, there’s no guarantee if you live to see next year or how much of you’ll still be there. ”

Chas rolled his eyes, grabbing the fireplace poker to give the fresh log a prod to position it better on top of the burning log. “Amazing, huh? Despite your best efforts, you’re not dead.” A flurry of sparks rushed up from the log as it caught fire, blazing orange and purple.

John laughed, resting his feet on the edge of the coffee table in front of him. “Oh, I’ve got no intention of dying, mate. You do enough of that nasty business yourself.”

Chas gave a sigh of agreement. “This year wasn’t too bad,” he said, replacing the poker in the metal stand near the fireplace. “Just six deaths.” He unconsciously rolled the shoulder the kraken had ripped his arm from earlier in the year. It felt stiffer than it had before, even though he’d come back from far worse injuries perfectly fine – being blasted apart by the grenade, speared through the chest.

John watched him from the sofa for a moment, quietly thinking. Shaking his head, he lit a cigarette, flicking the top of his lighter open and shut.

Chas brought a chilled bottle of champagne out of the fridge and set it down on the table, along with three thin glass champagne flutes. The millhouse’s only TV – a forty-year-old set with a broken antenna encased in an enormous wooden cabinet that by all rights shouldn’t have been able to get basic cable but somehow did – was tuned to a marathon of ‘The Twilight Zone’ and positioned near the sofa on a rolling cart.

“I almost forgot. There was a letter for you in the P.O. box today.” Chas reached into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out a small battered envelope covered in air-mail stamps.

“All the way from England?” said John, eying the envelope warily. There weren’t very many people in England he wanted to hear from, and a large chunk of those he would like to hear from weren’t in any condition to write to him.

“It’s from Cheryl,” said Chas.

John’s fingers froze, almost touching the envelope. “Cheryl?” His voice wavered slightly. He hadn’t heard from his sister since before he’d checked himself into Ravenscar last year. They’d never gotten on very well after she’d left their father’s house when John was still a young teenager. Even before Newcastle had sent John into a tailspin, more than a decade of simmering resentment from John had ground down their already shaky relationship into something foul and unpleasant.

Shortly after she’d given birth to her daughter, Cheryl and her husband Tony had gotten into a fight that had ended with Cheryl taking her infant daughter and a suitcase stuffed with clothes to the tiny flat that John shared with the rest of Mucous Membrane in London. When Cheryl had needed him, needed kindness, the sting of being abandoned by her only a few short years earlier had been too much for him to overcome. John had turned her away, unwilling to help. He’d left her crying outside the flat’s door. Although they’d eventually started speaking to each other again after a few months of terse silence and simply pretended that night had never happened, their relationship had never fully recovered. It had hung like a shroud between the two of them, and the argument they’d had a few weeks before he’d checked himself into Ravenscar last year – over a small thing that they’d both blown out of proportion into a much larger battle of bruised pride and cutting words – ensured that they wouldn’t be on speaking terms for a long time.

Chas nodded, sitting down on the sofa next to John. He was probably one of the few people who knew how tumultuous John’s relationship with his sister was, mostly because he’d known John for so long. “What do you want to do with it?”

John sighed. “Let’s have it.” He took the envelope from Chas, face blank as he took a closer look at his older sister’s neat handwriting. He had no idea how she’d gotten the address for the Mill House’s post office box. John slowly tore open the envelope’s flap and pulled out a folded piece of stationary paper. John unfolded the letter and a small photograph tucked inside fluttered out, landing face-down on the sofa cushion.

John picked up the photograph and flipped it over, unsure of what it might be.

It was a picture of Cheryl’s daughter Gemma, taken for school. It’d been two years since he’s last seen Gemma. Looking at the photo, it suddenly struck him how much she looked like her mother. Gemma’s hair was much darker than Cheryl’s, more like her father’s, but it was uncanny how much Gemma’s face, especially her eyes, was reminiscent of a younger Cheryl.

Chas leaned over slightly to look at the photo. “How old’s Gemma now? Ten?”

“Eleven,” said John distantly, his attention focused on the letter.

Chas watched John’s face carefully as he read the letter, but it remained detached, deliberately blank. When he was finished, John leaned his head back against the sofa and stared up at the ceiling, letting the letter fall out of his hands.

Chas knew better than to ask. He’d discovered fairly early on in his roadie career with Mucous Membrane to not ask about John’s family (which had been fine with him – he was similarly unenthusiastic about talking about his own), but he’d managed to learn the basics over the years. John’s mother had died giving birth to him and a stillborn twin, which his abusive alcoholic father had blamed him for, and he had only gotten worse when Cheryl hadn’t been around to try and diffuse the situation. John had run away to London twice, once a few months after Cheryl had left, and again as soon as he was old enough to not be dragged back to his father’s house in Liverpool by the authorities if he was caught. When John’s father had passed away while John was touring America with the band, John had all but celebrated his death. If John wanted to tell Chas what the letter from Cheryl said, he’d tell him when he was ready.

“It’s a _mea culpa_ letter,” said John eventually. “She’s finally ditched the arsehole husband for good and wants to make up, let Gemma get to know me better. A new start for all of us.” He gave an annoyed sigh. “Don’t know why she’s apologizing; we both said some fairly awful things to each other last time.”

Chas didn’t say anything for a moment, instead placing his hand on John’s leg. “Maybe she realized if she kept waiting for you to apologize first, she’d never hear from you again,” he said, gently teasing.

John gave him a sardonic look that unexpectedly softened into something both grim and fragile as he looked down at the photograph of Gemma. What was it John had said last year? _‘Family is like…handin’ someone a loaded gun and trusting them not to shoot you in the back with it.’_ Chas knew, perhaps better than John himself did, that despite everything John did genuinely care for his sister, but it was hard, if not impossible if he was in a dark enough mood, for him to forgive Cheryl for what had happened between them when they were younger. But John loved Gemma without reservation, and being cut off from her was hard on him.

“What it’s worth, I don’t think she’s suggesting you hop on the next plane to London to see her and pretend that nothing happened and everything’s fine now,” said Chas. He leaned forward to grab the bottle of champagne and began to remove the gold foil wrapped around the top. “She’s reaching out to try and rebuild. It’s still up to you if you want to take her up on it."

John stared at Chas for a moment. "You sound like a bloody self-help book."

Chas rolled his eyes good-naturedly as he tore off the rest of the foil. "I deserved that, I guess."

John glanced at the TV set as Chas popped the cork out of the bottle, the noise unexpectedly loud. "Is it midnight yet?" John said, changing the subject.

"Less than a minute to go until the new year," said Chas. He filled up the two thin glasses with champagne and handed John one. Once he'd placed the bottle down, he picked up his own glass and held it out to John. "Here's to the end of the old, and the beginning of the new."

With a small grin,  John clinked his glass against Chas's. "Cheers, mate."


End file.
